


Lover, Please Stay

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Death, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Heartbreak, Loss, Mild Smut, One Shot, Sad Ending, Unrequited Love, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: On the day of your wedding, Geralt objects.There is no happy here, only sads.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 13
Kudos: 91





	Lover, Please Stay

Geralt traced fingers over the cursive script on the invitation – your loopy handwriting – and stared at your name. The parchment was over-folded and torn a little at the edges from being in his pocket for so long. Jaskier sighed, and placed a hand on his friend’s forearm.

“You don’t have to go, you know.” The bard softly reminded.

“She invited me.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to _go._ ” Jaskier relinquished the touch, aware that the Witcher didn’t care much for physical affection, and returned to tuning his lute. “People skip weddings all the time.”

—————-

It was true; you had invited him. In a wine-drunk moment of passionate tears, in your private study, you’d written out his name as carefully as a monk gifted with scripture: _Geralt of Rivia and Guest._ You’d had it sent to one of the busier inns on a main road – one you knew he favoured – and had hoped it would reach his hand. That he might recognise the plea.

It had been well over a year since you’d travelled with the Witcher and, on occasion, his bard friend. You, the daughter of a merchant, had left your small, drowsy village in search of something greater than yourself; you were cursed with adventurous blood and daring desires, and before your family could object – before they knew it – you’d left them behind to seek fate. A Witcher had not been your intended target, but it was Geralt you’d met in a forest, hungry and wounded. You’d had supplies to spare, and a good heart, and although he flatly refused your help at the beginning, he came to recognise your stubborn nature and relented. Once he was fed and patched up, he healed much faster; you only camped in that spot for two nights.

What began as a relationship of convenience slowly turned into something else.

You’d not wanted payment in coin for seeing him well again. You had wanted to follow him, to learn of the world and proper combat, and feel freedom prick your skin and settle into your bones, etching your story there forever. Perhaps it was the travel with Jaskier that had made him numb to companionship, or perhaps he saw something in your bright eyes that reminded him of a time long in the past, but he’d acquiesced to your request. _Two weeks_ , he’d said.

Following beside him on Roach, you became his ill-prepared tourist. You were quieter than Jaskier, which he was grateful for, and he soon learned of the benefits of travel with an attractive young woman. Other men on the road gave way; merchants discounted your wares; inn-keepers were happy to have you stay. And you, naïve to the hunger of men, walked happily in his shadow, protected.

One night early into your agreement, you were camping rough by a clear lake, fed by a mountain stream. It was a chance to wash, and you’d shyly removed your boots and socks to scrub your feet. Geralt had less reservation; he’d pulled his shirt over his head, leaving him bare-chested. In the twilight, he was startlingly beautiful. He’d heard your gasp, and caught your stare.

“What?” He’d asked, narrowing his wolfish eyes.

“Your scars…” You’d murmured, tracing them greedily with your gaze.

“I know.” Biting the words out, he waited for you to ask about them. The questions, the memories; he didn’t want them.

Instead, you’d said, “They’re like _stars._ ” Your voice was barely above a whisper, and your full lips were hosting the dance of a smile. “A constellation.”

The way you’d chosen to regard his flaws had thrown him, and he’d stared at you heatedly for a long moment, before grunting, and starting to wash the road-dirt from his body. Still, after that day, he’d sometimes look down at the silvery bite-marks or healed blade-nicks on his skin, and think about the evening sky reflected in your eyes at that lake.

When two weeks had passed, you were reluctant to bring up the question of time. Watching him fight, and learning to wield a sword, and catching your own food, and the scent of wild and campfire and the lush hush of spring rain on a forest canopy – you hadn’t wanted to give it up. Alas, you were an honest woman – you’d always stayed true to your word.

“I know.” He’d muttered, when you’d approached him. “I can see you settled at the next village… if you _want._ ”

“What if… I _don’t_ want?” You’d hopefully challenged, and he’d grunted.

“You’ve yet to bother me. You can stay.”

Your heart had soared with that promise, and stay you did.

The weeks crept into a month, two months; you watched him slay bears and wild wolves and even drowners. He would not let you join him for more dangerous hunts, and although you’d pouted about it, you’d understood; you were a liability in situations that required strength or magic. Jaskier would have put up a fuss, and he’d appreciated your even-temper.

When the evenings got colder, you’d crept your bedroll closer and closer to his, until one evening he awoke to find you spooning into the warmth of him, unconsciously stealing his body heat. And he’d _liked_ it. Gently, he’d pulled you close, and drifted back into slumber himself. After that, you slept together for warmth – just for warmth, you’d said – and found that both of you were better rested than you had been in a long time.

You couldn’t recall who’d moved first, the day you’d kissed. It had felt so natural, so easy; you were snuggled before the crackle of a campfire, and you’d simply tilted your head up to look at him. His warm lips on yours were welcomed, and there was nothing lustful or frenzied about the embrace; you’d kissed like old lovers, two souls meeting, the flick of your tongues lazy as you’d expressed physically what your minds had been shouting for weeks. When you broke the kiss, you’d both seemed surprised for a moment; you’d read it in his shining eyes, and he in yours. But the reaction was fleeting.

You’d climbed into his lap, weaving your fingers into the first winter-frost of his hair; he’d guided you with strong hands, and this time when you kissed, it was flame and desire and need, teeth grazing, fingers roaming. Making love in that forest clearing had been the most intense and gratifying experience of your life. Geralt was a considerate and responsive lover; he seemed attuned to your body, to your every wish, making them realities before you even had to ask. You’d come undone in his embrace again and again before he’d let himself follow.

It was different in the wake of that. He let you ride Roach. He began to share stories from his past; things he’d known would interest or amuse you. You’d confided your reasons for fleeing your village; your fear of becoming nothing, of dissolving into the surname of a man that you cooked and cleaned and birthed for. He’d told you that you’d _never_ have to face that destiny, if you didn’t want to. That you were too wild for such things.

You shared a bedroll, or an inn room, when you rested. You discovered things about Geralt that he didn’t know himself; that there was a specific place on the back of his neck, at his hairline, that drove him wild when you sucked upon the skin. That he rather enjoyed the thrill of potential discovery and trysts in the most unlikely of places. That he found great comfort in having his hair brushed and braided and stroked. In turn, he lit fires in places inside you that you’d never known were kindled; some nights he drove you to your limits, fucked-out and mindless. Sometimes he bathed you in washes of pleasure, tangled with you in sheets and sunlight, slowly exploring every inch of your skin. Some nights you just watched one another in silence, all secret smiles and soft fingers, falling asleep in the security of company.

When you happened upon Jaskier on your travels, it was the beginning of the end.

“Who is this _gorgeous_ thing atop Roach, Geralt?” He’d trilled, as you’d wandered into town. You’d heard the Witcher’s low groan beneath his breath.

Begrudgingly, like a boy forced to share his favourite treasure, he introduced you. You’d liked Jaskier from the very start. He was outgoing and loud and explosively colourful, a fierce juxtaposition to Geralt’s disposition. There was no hiding your affection for the Witcher from him – he’d known it the instant he’d seen you astride Roach – and secretly, you spoke of your love when Geralt was away on a hunt.

“Be _careful_ with him, darling.” Jaskier had warned, flirting with the barmaid in the same breath.

“How so?” You’d lightly dismissed, “He’s not fragile.”

“No,” The bard had agreed, “But… _you_ are.”

You’d argued that night, and had stormed off to bed. Without Geralt in it, away on the hunt as he was, you’d found sleep impossible, and had replayed the conversation in your mind, letting the bard’s words truly sink in. He was right; Geralt of Rivia held your heart in his leather-clad hand. It beat on his mercy. And if he wished it, he could crush it. In truth, you’d _no idea_ how he felt about you.

In the early hours before dawn you’d snuck into Jaskier’s room and cried in his arms, the sleep-ruffled bard comforting, accepting your apologies readily and trying to work out how best to navigate the tricky situation. When your distress had quietened to sniffles, he’d blearily captured your gaze, and swept the tear-tracks from your cheeks.

“There’s nothing you can do but be honest with him.” He’d advised, speaking the truth that you both knew. “If you aren’t… it’ll begin to devour you.”

That sentiment echoed in your head in the week after you left that tavern behind. Jaskier headed in a different direction – although now he was armed with fresh tales of travel, courtesy of you. You’d hugged him fiercely and thanked him for his company, although he knew what you were _really_ grateful for. Geralt had simply nodded at the bard, a sort of _‘until next time’_ gesture, and you’d carried on.

One night, you couldn’t sleep, and he could feel it in your heartbeat and your slight wriggling. Eventually, wearied, he’d sighed.

“What troubles you?” The low register of his voice in the silent forest had made you shiver, despite his warmth.

“I’m… just thinking. Of something Jaskier said.” Your voice was small.

“Jaskier says too much.” Geralt grumped, and pulled you closer. “What was it? Some off-hand remark that is actually terribly offensive? Something about–”

“He said that I should _tell you_ that I’m in love with you.”

Geralt was silent behind you, but you could feel his body stiffen. Your heart was leaden, sinking, and you feared you might be sick.

“ _Are_ … you?” Eventually, he spoke, but there was a sharpness to his tone that you didn’t understand.

“…Yes.” You’d confessed, a breath, a prayer.

Silence again. He merely squeezed you, nuzzled the back of your head, and murmured, “Let’s speak of this in the morning. The night has a way of… making things seem bigger than they are.”

You were trembling coltishly, adrenaline ruling your veins, but you knew he was right about the second part. How could you sleep now, you’d wondered? But when that rush faded, you were left with fatigue, and as it crept towards dawn, you slept.

Sunlight woke you up. Sunlight and cold; the day had gone beyond breakfast, and your bedroll was empty. “Geralt?” You’d called, sleepily, pushing yourself up to look around.

Your things were neatly packed. His were gone. Roach was gone.

In a panic, you rose, refusing to believe your eyes, refusing to think he’d take your deepest confession and run away with it. You blinked at the prism of tears that distorted your vision, calling his name until your voice was hoarse, eventually stumbling back to your pack and collapsing by it. The flutter of parchment under a strap caught your attention, and greedily, you snatched it.

_I’m so sorry. You deserve better._

You’d stared at the words until they became blurred, not just from your tears, but from the drip of them into the ink, the parchment drinking of the salt until there was nothing left of his message but a garbled smear. Then you’d balled it up, thrown it, and howled like a dying beast.

In the time following, there were moments when you thought you would die. When the pain of him leaving would wrack you awake, the shudder of your body so violent you felt it down to your etched bones. When you’d get carelessly drunk and fall into bed with someone – anyone – to attempt to sate the vicious jaws of loneliness. When you wandered bare-foot for two entire days, bewildered and confused, until a kindly elderly couple supplied you with shoes and direction. Home. You’d go home. Back to that little village, that little life, that little fate that you’d tried in vain to escape from.

Your family welcomed you, at least. It had been a year, and your mother told you you’d only grown in beauty. They’d been angry at your departure at first; it had caused a rift, and your brother had left, too. Your father had turned to gambling and drink, and had nearly run the trade business your family owned into the ground. You often saw your mother take herbs given to her by the town’s hedgewitch, a remedy for her nerves.

When the Baron’s son passed through on his fine horse one morning and caught you in conversation, taking an interest, your father had seen an opportunity. Every time the regal man was due into town, you were pushed out the front of the shop, trying to act naturally as you swept the stoop or cleaned the glass. The baiting worked; he began to bring you flowers, and seek small escorted outings to the river with you, infatuated with the preciousness of your youth and the wildness that still paced your eyes – though it was much dulled now, caged. You found him tolerable; he liked to talk about himself, mostly, and you could tune that out, nodding when you felt it was appropriate. “ _Hmm._ ” Was your go-to response; if it bothered him, he never said. Definitely the sort of man that thought women shouldn’t have an opinion.

The match was uneven in rank, but the boy was used to getting what he wanted, and as a second son, his union was of less import. But it certainly meant prosperity for _your_ family, and security for you. How could you deny them, after you’d caused such an upset in the steady rhythm of their lives? This was how it was to be. You’d accepted his promise ring with what you hoped was a smile of grateful eagerness, and had tried to kiss him with meaning, tried not to compare his dry lips to those of the man that walked the world with the ashes of your heart smeared on his palm like stigmata.

It was only alone, with a month before the wedding, that you broke down and wrote out the invitation. It probably wouldn’t reach him. He probably wouldn’t care. You’d sent it anyway.

—————-

“I need to see that she’s… happy.” Geralt managed, raising his eyes to meet Jaskier’s. “Come with me to the ceremony.”

The bard recognised the heartbroken pieces that drifted in the Witcher’s unearthly gaze, and sighed. “Of course, Ger’. Of course I’ll come.”

Geralt grunted in reply, but Jaskier knew the man was grateful and relieved.

It was easy for the bard to find something fitting for a wedding of nobility, but as Geralt held up his ‘best’ linen shirt, Jaskier had tutted. To the Witcher’s distress, he found himself fitted for a suit; he insisted on muted colours, no embellishments, and minimal tailoring. The end product hugged his body handsomely, although Geralt touched the silk lining of his jacket, fingered the gold buttons, and glared at Jaskier, who shrugged in innocence.

The night before, sequestered in a busy tavern near the venue, neither man slept well. In your bridal bedchambers, neither did you, staring at the fine gown that hung across the bedroom like a steel trap, waiting with bared teeth.

You awoke to tradition; to the bathing, the grooming, the handmaidens – that you were still entirely unused to – perfuming you, dressing you, pinning your hair into a beautifully complicated updo. When you looked in the mirror you didn’t recognise the woman staring back; she was dressed in ivory and gold, her waist cinched, the fine fabric of her gown threaded with jewels and pearls that she’d never asked for. Everything about her was ethereal, beautiful – save for the hollow stare of her eyes. But there was no one to look for that tell. You played your part as though you were watching from afar; the happy bride, marrying a dream man, finding a life of luxury.

At the church, your mother cried. Your brother had returned to the family, and he looked handsome in his best man’s suit. Your father – now sober – took your hands and told you how proud he was, how _precious_ you were. How tonight would be nothing to fear; you should just do what comes naturally. You almost laughed; they had no idea how far from virginal you were. How no man could satisfy you again. How you were only truly wedded to your memories.

In a private room, you waited to walk the aisle, fiddling with the lipstick on your mouth, pulling your delicately gauzy veil over your face, adjusting the jewelled tiara that the Baroness had loaned you. _You can do this,_ you’d told the woman in the mirror. She stared back at you like a wine cup waiting to be filled.

Your father fetched you to lead you to the doors, and as the trio of bards sung in perfect harmony, they opened to reveal the crowd to you. You felt weak at the knees, unused to so much attention, but your father’s strong arm held you as you walked. It was difficult to scan the crowd and try to look as though you were walking to meet your heart’s desire at the same time, and so you simply concentrated on moving forward. One foot at a time. Another step towards the gallows.

Your fiancé looked dashing, proud to be acquiring such a jewel; readily he accepted your hand as your father offered it, and there you stood at the altar, veiled and waiting.

“Your hands are shaking, my sweet.” He whispered to you, and you attempted a smile.

“It is only because I am so excited.” You replied.

Geralt and Jaskier stood near the back; even tall as he was, the Witcher somehow fit into the crowd. Perhaps it was the suit. They both watched you glide down the aisle, and Geralt frantically tried to scan your features; he could not see you for the damnable veil. He saw your tremble, and tried to decipher it – nerves or excitement? When the priest began to speak, he sat with the rest of the guests, and stared.

At some point, the veil was lifted, and he _saw_ you. He saw the beauty he’d missed, the precious lips that he’d once kissed, the twist of your hair that he’d once spent hours running his hands through. He saw what he’d thrown away, like a _coward._ Most importantly, he saw the emptiness in your eyes; the echo of a girl that had once danced around wildfires, laughing, or had threatened the thunder in the sky with her own warning. Something clenched his heart, vice-like, and he shot to his feet.

“…their _peace._ ” The priest finished, in surprise, as his aged eyes fell upon Geralt; now that he was the only one standing, his presence filled the room with command, and the crowd murmured, turning to gaze at the one who would stand against a Baron’s son.

You turned too, and gasped, flinching at the sight of the man you’d invited yourself, but that you hadn’t dared to hope would show. And here he was, _objecting._ Here he was, saving you from the destiny you feared. Your eyes glistened and you begged him with your stare: _speak._

“Yes, Witcher?” Impatiently, the priest pressed. “What is your objection?”

Geralt clenched his fists and frowned. What was he to say? He could declare your virtue impure, but how could he do that to you in front of your family and so many strangers? He could declare his love – but what did he have to offer that a _Baron’s son_ did not? He had no house, no wealth; he had his swords, his horse, and the road. The courage that had brought him here faltered. Jaskier kicked him in the foot.

“I just… _wanted…_ ” Geralt began, clearing his throat, “I needed…” He met your eyes, saw the desperation, and exhaled a long breath. “I needed to know… that all parties are consenting readily to this match.”

Your heart, tattered as it was, suffered another fissure. On this matter, you could not speak – _surely he knew that?_ Wild-eyed, you looked to your father; he was not regarding you, but the Witcher.

“Of course!” He laughed, trading a glance with the Baron, who looked irritated at the interruption. “My daughter is honoured by this match.”

“And my son desires it.” The Baroness spoke, curiously peering at Geralt.

“ _No._ ” You whispered, so soft that it was only a breath; you could have sworn that the Witcher heard, pausing as he began to leave, but it did not matter. The door closed in his wake.

—————-

You couldn’t recall the rest of the ceremony. Perhaps you’d cried and disguised it as joy. Perhaps you’d forced a smile and laughed with the rest of the crowd over the peculiar actions of a mutant. All you truly knew was that there was now a gold band on your finger, settled beneath the jeweled promise ring, and it felt like a shackle. Outside the church, the Baron presented you both, and well-wishers cheered and threw rose-petals and clapped, and the two of you divided briefly to thank guests for coming.

There was only one guest you wanted to see; when you freed yourself from the tangle of people, making sure to profusely thank them in a hollow voice, frantic eyes scanned for a white mane of hair. You saw it around the side of the church, in the gardens, and stealing away, you ran for him.

“Why?” You burst out, pulling him into shadow, “ _Why?!_ ”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your happy day…” He gritted, lowering his eyes.

“It’s the worst day of my life, and you know it. _That’s_ why you came. _Why_ didn’t you object?” You couldn’t stop the tears, now; they ran in rivers down your cheeks.

“And say _what?_ ” Geralt snapped, cupping your face in his hands, “Say that we’ve been together, and ruin your prospects in front of the whole blasted–”

“I care not for my _prospects!_ ” You sobbed, pushing his hands away, “I wanted _you_. I don’t **care** what you would have said. Oh, Gods – _would have._ Why did you _really_ come here?”

The words caught on his tongue again. He tried to make you see them with his eyes, but you could not, distressed as you were. “I needed… to make sure you were happy.” He finally spoke, stupidly.

Angrily, you wiped away your tears. “My family will be secure. That is all I can ask for. That is my duty, as a daughter.”

The gravity of it hit him. He tried to take your hands, but you refused him. “You _aren’t_ happy.”

The fury of your stare was shocking to him. “Was it you that wasn’t enough, Geralt? Or was it _me?_ ”

“How could you think–” He hissed, before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t lay with him. If you don’t consummate the marriage, you can have it declared void.”

Humourlessly, you laughed. “Have you any _idea_ the scandal? The ruin my family would suffer? It is done. The chance is gone.” You took a step back. “Run away, like you want to. Leave this place. If I must be damned, do not _hurt me_ any longer.”

He spoke your name, but you were already turning to leave, back to the masses, back to your new husband’s side.

—————-

Five years later, he visits you. It’s a contrite, gentle way that he approaches you, bearing nothing but a single snow-white rose as a peace offering; it matches his hair. He sits and tells you of the things he’s done in the time you’ve been apart, of the places he thinks you’d like to have seen, of the beasts that he battled. He speaks of Jaskier, and his fame and songs. He tells you that there isn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t wish he’d said what he’d come to say in that church – the three words that could have changed everything, both of your destinies.

_I love you._

He congratulates you on the birth of your son, and apologises for not bringing a gift. But he cannot bear to see the baby. He can’t think of you and the Baron’s son together. He doesn’t want to see the little life that robbed you of your own.

Atop your tombstone, he lays the rose, and traces your name carved in the stone the way his fingers used to trace the curve of your lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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